Something Old, Something New
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: It felt like his friendship with House was slipping right through his fingers, like grabbing handfuls of sand and the harder he squeezed, the more he tried to hold on, the less he found in each handful.


**Notes: **Thanks to theletterv for reading through this several times to make sure it was just right. *bows*

Something Old, Something New

Every time he saw it, fire stabbed into his sternum. Acid seeped into his veins and boiled into his stomach, nausea turning over and over. It was such a tiny thing; a small, golden ring, and yet the emotions it elicited were far from small. When the light glinted off of it, it seared into his eyes as if he were staring directly into the sun, and the heat from its rays burned his lungs and heart.

Perhaps that was the melodramatic way of putting it, but Wilson couldn't _stand_ the sight of House's wedding band, and he knew it was pathetic. He knew, just like everyone else in the hospital did, that it was a sham of a marriage; a fraudulent mockery of love. When he looked at it like that, he knew seeing the wedding band shouldn't evoke such a strong reaction, but it did. Maybe that was how House felt every time Wilson was married; if so, Wilson could understand why House did all he could to sabotage his relationships because in all honestly, _it hurt._

Every time he talked to House, his eyes were invariably drawn to the strip of gold around his left ring finger, and it dampened his mood entirely. House didn't really talk about Dominika often but when he did, Wilson felt an irrational urge to just-

Do something.

He couldn't really figure out _what,_ exactly, but he always felt the need to do something; a sudden burst of energy sparking him with urges he couldn't grasp onto-but whatever they were, it was probably something unpleasant. Whenever Wilson had bursts of uncontrolled doing, he usually ended up breaking something expensive.

Wilson hated the fact he just didn't know what House was doing anymore. Ever since Cuddy dumped him, he'd been going overboard with everything. He wasn't being House-he was being House Concentrate. Everything that made House who he was, he was taking and perverting into some cracked-out version of that trait. In theory, Wilson should have known that House wasn't going to jump off a balcony to kill himself; yet, he hadn't. In theory, he shouldn't have been surprised that he randomly got married, but he was.

Wilson just didn't seem to be on the same wavelength as House anymore. The more he tried to understand, the less he did; the more he tried to get into House's life, the more he felt pushed away.

Frankly, it was stressing him out. When House was dating Cuddy, of course they hadn't been able to spend as much time together. That had frustrated him a little, of course, but now? Instead of freeing up some more of his time, House post-Cuddy seemed to have less of it. They hardly talked, saw each other less, and it felt like his friendship with House was slipping right through his fingers, like grabbing handfuls of sand and the harder he squeezed, the more he tried to hold on, the less he found in each handful. He was losing House faster than he could keep track of him and if it continued on in this way, he honestly worried that House would just disappear.

Of all the times House was so sure Wilson would be the one to leave, to be pushed away, it felt like it was going to be the other way around, and Wilson couldn't stop it. It more than worried him; it frightened him.

As if that wasn't enough stress, Cuddy wasn't making things easier on him, either. House was pushing at the boundaries harder, and Cuddy was slowly, but surely, beginning to fight back-but it wasn't enough, and every time she did, she seemed to have a mini-crisis over it. He hadn't realized how little people were in Cuddy's life until he realized that she had no one to talk to but him. He wondered vaguely why she didn't open up to her sister, except maybe she didn't want her family involved; from what he knew, she wasn't especially close with either her sister or mother. Maybe she chose to speak to Wilson because he, supposedly, understood House more than her family ever would. Either way, he couldn't go a week without Cuddy finding him and tentatively complaining about House and he would offer comfort, because that was just what Wilson did.

Add that to dying patients who needed comforting, as well as their family members, among other work-related stressors, and Wilson could feel he was nearing the breaking point.

His day hadn't been any more stressful than any other; in fact, all things considered, it was an objectively good day. The weather was warm, none of his patients died, traffic went smoothly and, really, nothing overly bad happened. So why did he feel as if everything had gone spectacularly wrong? In fact, for the past while, that's how it always seemed, regardless of how good his day actually was; it felt like it wasn't, no matter what.

He massaged his temples, trying to stave off a headache he knew was coming.

The door opened and he glanced at the entrant. A burst of gold caught his eyes, like normal. Whether it was imagined or the light from his office reflecting off of the ring, Wilson couldn't be sure. The unpleasant lurch in his gut followed, as usual, as he looked back at the paperwork he was supposed to be filling.

House settled in the seat across from him. Wilson signed his name and glanced at his own empty ring finger instead of paying attention to House.

"Come have dinner tonight. Dominika is cooking."

Wilson imagined upending his desk with his Hulk-like strength. Which he didn't have. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes.

Instead, he opted to say nothing.

"Seriously, the silent treatment? What's your problem?" House spat, and he didn't try to hide the fact he was clearly irritated.

"I don't have a problem." It was a lie and he didn't care if House believed him. He kept filling out his paperwork, not even looking up to see House's expression.

"Then tell me you'll come."

Wilson sighed and laid down his pen. He rubbed the bridge of his nose before pinching it and closing his eyes, as if by just wishing hard enough, he could make everything go away. Dominika, the ring, House asking him to dinner with his wife . . .

Sighing, he held his forehead and stared at House's chin, rather than his whole face. He couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes for some reason. "I'm not going to tell you that."

"Why not?" House rudely asked, and it was somehow surreal to see nothing but the way his mouth moved and imagine it moving against Dominika's.

Wilson clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, hating that image intensely. He grabbed the pen and stared down at his paperwork again. "Because I haven't decided if I want to yet."

"You don't like her."

"I never said that," he muttered, although it was true. He didn't like Dominika. At all. There was no reason not to; he just didn't.

"We've been married a month and you haven't dropped by once," House accused, and there was a tone Wilson recognized underneath the bite; a tone of worry.

He opened his mouth to prove House wrong, but knew that he wouldn't be able to because it was true. Perhaps Wilson was pushing House away as much as House seemed to be distancing himself.

"She doesn't have to cook," Wilson stated, lowering his pen again and focusing on the area around House's mouth again, consciously blurring the rest of his face. Somehow, it was too painful to actually see him.

"Why not?"

"Because it's degrading," Wilson snapped, finally meeting House's eyes. A sharp, half-electrical charge went through him; shook his ribcage and he clenched his hand into a fist. House's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "She's a human being and you're treating her like a live-in maid."

"She knows why I married her. What's the big deal?"

"Well, I don't know, women's rights, perhaps?"

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, but hiring an _actual_ maid and an _actual_ hooker is perfectly acceptable? You can't pick and choose when to follow equality, Wilson. I didn't see you complaining when one of my hookers gave you back rub, or, I don't know, when you go around sleeping with women and discarding them the next night like a used sock."

"You're _using_ her."

"She's using me." Wilson scoffed and went to argue, but House talked over him. "What? Do you think she loves me? She's only interested in me for a green card. She wants something from me, I want something from her-it's a business deal, not a marriage."

Wilson looked skyward for a moment, then shook his head. "Fine," he relented tiredly; he didn't want to argue. It wouldn't go anywhere and he was tired; tired of playing games with House, tired of not knowing what the hell was going on in House's head, and tired of fretting over every little thing that happened.

"So, you _will_ eat dinner with us tonight?"

"Yes, I will eat dinner with you tonight," he snapped viciously and quickly, glaring at House.

House raised his eyebrows and looked Wilson over. "Well gee, with an attitude like that, I'm not sure I want you over anymore."

"House-"

"Kidding, I still want you over."

Wilson opened his mouth to continue talking, but then stopped when he saw House's expression. House couldn't meet Wilson's eyes, either. They hadn't hung out in ages, and House was asking Wilson to come over to remedy that. Wilson had been so caught up in his brooding he'd missed what he wouldn't have missed weeks ago. House might have been a huge part of why they were falling apart, but Wilson wasn't doing much to help the situation, either. He was so caught up in loathing the fact House was married that he was pushing House away when he was reaching forward.

House bowed his head and focused on his lap; all Wilson could see was the top of his head and forehead.

Wilson smiled and although the pain in his chest hadn't abated, it had at least lessened. The flicker of vulnerability or want or need or whatever it had been that crossed House's face was gone, but Wilson nodded; perhaps House was feeling the pain as much as Wilson was.

"How does eight sound?" Wilson asked quietly and he wondered if perhaps he had a reason to feel as guilty as he did; it certainly washed over him like an unpleasant wave of heat in a sticky, disgustingly hot summer.

"Sounds peachy," House chirped and pushed out of the chair; the vague haze of mild contentment disappeared and shot Wilson straight in the gut painfully when light shimmered on the golden band.

* * *

><p>Despite the fact that Dominika cooked for the both of them, and what she had made looked delicious, Wilson refused it on the grounds he'd already eaten, which was a complete lie. House had looked at him suspiciously but didn't say anything as he inhaled his food while Dominika massaged his shoulders. Just seeing her hands digging into his shoulders made his stomach lurch and his back seem uncomfortably poised; he felt like squirming around uncomfortably, similar to how he felt when seeing a child bawl hysterically at the supermarket while his mother tried to quietly calm him down.<p>

Instead of making a comment, he turned his attention back to the mindless action flick that was on House's television. He tried to stay focused on the plot, but he was more aware of what was going on in his peripherals than the explosions. More aware of House shovelling down Dominika's food while she puttered around them, massaging House's shoulders and feet; asking Wilson if he would like anything; picking up their mess like . . .

Like a slave.

The more Wilson noticed her, the twitchier his insides felt. The more he kept seeing her, walking around House's apartment, the more he felt she just did not belong; like a speck of dirt on an otherwise clean shirt. Although she was married to House, all Wilson could see was an intruder, blaringly oblivious to the fact she didn't belong. The bumbling moron who stumbled into a group of women too polite to tell him he was annoying them; a little kid laughing obnoxiously loud at a joke his parents' friend told that he couldn't possibly get.

When Dominika sat on the other side of House, as he was on the middle cushion, and House put his arm on the back of the couch-behind _her_ shoulders-a sudden, and intense, pain shot through his chest. It was when she dropped her head to his shoulder that Wilson's stomach churned and eyes stung; maybe _he_ was the one who didn't belong.

Although House bumped his shoulder and Dominika was smart enough to know that she needed to remove her head, that still didn't stop the unexplainable urge to do something-anything. Everything. Storm out, kick the coffee table, scream out in utter horror . . .

But, like always, he shoved those feelings down into his stomach and resigned himself to finishing the movie.

Maybe Wilson needed to accept the truth; House was married, and this marriage-however false-was just how things were always going to be, no matter what. There would never be another boys' night out without House needing to get home to the Mrs.; there wouldn't be anymore nights where Wilson could hang out with House for hours on end, perhaps spending the night on the couch, without someone else hovering over their shoulders in a misguided attempt to be one of them.

Or maybe he was the misguided one.

They would never get back to the way they were before Wilson kicked House out for Sam. The organ Wilson hadn't moved, despite much pressure from Sam, would never be used again. That wasn't it though-it went deeper than the two of them joking about horrible music, watching horrible television on mute, and sharing long silences as often as they filled them with chatter. No, this was more crucial than that; House and Wilson would never be how they were.

They were lost, and Wilson feared that it was permanent.

The movie finally ended after a predictable climax, the main male lead kissed the female lead with his shirt torn and skin smudged with whatever action hero's always ended up smudged with in movies, and the girl remained pristine and sexy and feminine.

So damn predictable.

He looked over at House and Dominika and sighed loud enough to get House's attention. His cheeks burned in embarrassment, as if House could somehow know he felt bitter enough at their marriage even typical male/female kisses in movies pissed him off, and cleared his throat. "Well, I think I should be heading home . . ." He stood from the couch and popped his back, but it was mostly just a show to appear nonchalant, rather than agitated.

"Honey," House began, and for some inexplicable reason Wilson couldn't identify, he turned to face House as if he naturally assumed House was talking to him. Which, of course, he wasn't. House narrowed his eyes before turning to Dominika, and Wilson's cheeks burned again. "Could you run to the store and buy some bread?"

"We have one loaves not opened," Dominika stated.

House glared at her, but only briefly. "Get some orange juice, then."

Dominika was either smart enough to get that House wanted her gone, or dumb enough to think House was serious. Judging by the way she glanced at Wilson, then nodded, he was going to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she understood.

Wilson slowly sat on the couch again but House stood while Dominika hastily got ready to leave. By the time she actually did make it out the door, House was sitting beside Wilson again, handling him a controller for the XBOX 360 he'd hooked up to his TV.

"House, what-?"

"Street Fighter," he answered hastily, eyes glued to the screen.

Wilson didn't turn to the screen. "You excused your wife to play Street Fighter with me?" he asked disbelievingly.

"You didn't want her here," House stated before skipping through the opening video and going to the start screen.

His heart dropped into his gut, like he'd missed a step going downstairs. House still focused on the TV, but Wilson remained looking directly at him. "I never said I didn't like-"

"You didn't touch the food and I told you we were having dinner so either you ate anyway, or didn't and aren't eating now despite that. So, either way, you didn't want to eat her food. You haven't talked to her, you keep giving her dirty looks-"

"House, come on, you're being ridic-"

"Wilson, stop it. I'm not an idiot," House spat and Wilson snapped his mouth shut with an audible click when his teeth smacked against each other. "Pick your character," he commanded while gesturing to the screen with his chin.

That shook him out of his blatant staring, and he picked his character.

Wilson stayed forcibly silent and attempted to fight House in return, but his head was clearly not in the game. Under normal circumstances, they had a rough battle; they were equally matched, and knew each other's style well enough to anticipate each other-the fact they both gravitated towards same characters helped-and instead of a challenge, House was wiping the floor with him. He tried to stay focused and fight, but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried.

All Wilson could think about how what House said was true. He didn't like Dominika. This wasn't a revelation at all, since the very idea of her pissed him off to no end; seeing House's ring instilled him with the urge to punch something. Objectively, he knew there was no real reason for him to hate her; she was fun, easy-going, funny, attractive, and clearly helpful, and to be honest, Wilson didn't know her enough to really hate her. But he did. And he knew why; it was the same reason House hated all of Wilson's wives and House, being in that position before, had to know that.

Unlike House, though, Wilson had no excuse; House openly admitted to it being fake. And yet, he came home to her every night, and replaced Wilson in everything he and House ever had together; not to mention, considering they probably had sex, things House and Wilson had never done. Or would ever do.

Ever.

And why that riled him, Wilson didn't want to admit.

After House won for the fourth time, he let out an audible groan. "Okay, you're not even trying. What the hell? I sent her away, and you're still sitting there moping like a goddamn emo who didn't get his custom-made razor blade for arm cutting."

Wilson shrugged, then put the paddle down on the coffee table louder than was necessary. He winced and then looked at House, who was narrowing his eyes at him, still holding his own controller. "I don't know, House. I'm just not in the mood for playing games."

"Then stop," House ordered.

Their eyes locked for a second, the intensity and snarl twisting his mouth sending a shock of regret into Wilson's gut. He averted his eyes before he could focus too long and get stuck.

House clunked his paddle beside Wilson's, who was still sitting on the edge of the couch, although he was turned slightly away from House. "You don't even know her."

"Neither do you," Wilson pointed out reasonably.

"More than you do. You don't know a damn thing, and you hate her. Why?"

"I don't hate-"

"Yes you do," he interrupted snappily, and Wilson glanced at him, once again focusing on his chin instead of his face.

"I don't hate her, House, I just-" he cut himself off, then pinched his lips together. He moved to stand from the couch. "Nothing. I'm tired, I should probably-"

House grabbed his arm and forced him back down, ignoring Wilson's half-uttered protest. "What? You don't hate her, you just what? I'm a big boy. I can handle it; just say it. I know you don't like her."

"I don't hate her; I just-I just hate the-the whole-" he sputtered, then growled and went to stand, but House gripped his shoulder tightly; Wilson probably could've pulled free, but he didn't; instead he just stared at the character screen; they didn't have much time left to choose their opponents. He let out a harsh sigh, then held his face in his hands. "Never mind," he muttered.

House grabbed his shoulder and forcibly turned him so they were on the edge of the couch, both turned to face each other; knees knocking roughly together. "Don't do that. Don't wuss out and evade," House growled, squeezing Wilson's shoulder harder when he turned to leave again.

He clenched his jaw closed and lowered his head, staring at the vicinity of the coffee table, and House roughly grabbed his jaw, forcing Wilson to face him. Wilson jerked his jaw free and turned away, but House just grabbed it tighter and forced him to meet his eyes again.

House's lips were pursed; his eyes were wide and nostrils flared slightly; he breathed quicker than usual, although not louder. Staring into his eyes was uncomfortable, especially considering how close they were-knees pressed together almost painfully, faces inches from each other-so he averted his eyes and ended up staring at House's mouth.

Without meaning to, he relaxed his jaw and his shoulders sagged; House's bruising grip on his chin loosened but didn't release. Wilson's heart beat fleeting in in his chest and House visibly breathed slower, but now Wilson could hear it. He swallowed the lump in his throat when House's pink tongue moistened his bottom lip. If he wanted to, he could just lean forward and kiss him.

And he wanted to.

"Marriage," Wilson blurted, pulling his face free, and scooting away.

"What?" House sounded confused and breathless.

"I hate the whole marriage," Wilson admitted through his clenched teeth and held his forehead.

"It's fake, Wilson."

"I know that," he snapped.

"And what, you worry eventually that it won't be?"

Wilson opened his mouth to protest because that wasn't initially the reason why he hated their marriage, but he realized that it was, in fact, a very large part. He was scared of everything a genuine marriage entailed. A woman cooking for House, playing games with House, accepting House for who he was and loving him for it, and House eventually learning to love her in return and . . . and Wilson wouldn't fit anywhere anymore. House would be with his new fun wife and joke with her, and get free food from her, instead of Wilson, and Wilson wouldn't exist anymore.

"It's . . . it's more than that, House," Wilson settled, knowing that he just admitted that the fear of the marriage becoming real was a part of it. "It's-it's more than the fact you might fall in-you and I might not . . ." He closed his eyes. He was not good at admitting jealousy at all; when House did it, he made it seem like it could very well be a perfectly natural and platonic reaction to his best friend getting in a relationship or even married; Wilson knew that he wouldn't be able to pull that off.

House didn't say anything sarcastic or rude. He didn't pry or make some kind of suggestive joke.

Wilson wished he would have.

"It's the fact it's fake, too," he said quietly, staring at the coffee table and peripherally at the television, and the game must've picked their characters for them because music was playing and two characters were facing off, standing there and doing nothing with the timer counting down.

"So one second, you're worried it'll be real, and the next, you're pissed that it's fake. Gee, Wilson, if I didn't know any better, I'd say-"

"You're giving up," Wilson interrupted, turning to face House, but again, not really looking at his face so much as in the general vicinity. "That's what bothers me. You're just giving up on the fact that-that it's possible you _can_ be loved by someone who doesn't demand you change. You're _married,_ House, to someone who doesn't love you; and that's it. You just-you just _threw_ away the possibility that Cuddy _isn't_ the last person you ever had a chance with."

"How many times do we have to go through with this? _The marriage isn't real._ So why would that mean I can't-"

"It's just a distraction, House-this whole marriage, from the fact you think you aren't good enough to be loved. For who you are. Do you really think you're going to, what? Find someone who'll date you and be in a relationship with you if you're _married_ to someone just so she can get her green card? You might not admit it, but you're intentionally throwing away any chance of _ever-"_

"Okay, okay, I get it!" growled House, throwing his hands in the air, although admittedly not as animatedly as Wilson would have. "You say you're pissed because I'm giving up a chance at real love-and yet, _and yet,_ you would be annoyed _if_ I really _did_ learn to love her! Cut the crap, Wilson, you and I both know why you don't like her, so quit with the selfless act and finish playing Street Fighter."

Wilson scoffed and stood from the couch, and had no idea why he was suddenly angry-because House was being intentionally annoying, or because he was right. "I'm going home," he muttered and started towards the door.

"That's right, go run off and cry," House jeered.

Wilson froze and clenched his fists, feeling his shoulders rise up with tension; his jaw clenched so hard his temples ached. He spun around and pointed an accusing finger at House, who must've stood from the couch when WIlson's back was turned, and someone was declared a winner by default on the game. "House, you-you always do this! I'm trying to have a legitimate, _mature_ conversation, and-"

"What? Won't let you try and rationalize away what you really feel, Wilson? Just admit it; you're jealous. You're jealous I'm married, you're jealous I haven't been able to devote every damn second of my life to you, and you're jealous that you might not be the one cooking for me all the time from now on; I'm not a moron, I've been where you are!"

"It's not about that, House! It's not about-"

"Yes it is! Admit it, Wilson! Admit it so we can get back to-"

"What? Normal?" Wilson scoffed.

"The game!" House finished almost desperately, pointing rather dramatically at the screen. "I just want to play, all right? Is that too much to ask?"

"I don't want to play anymore!" Wilson shouted.

"Oh, please, Wilson! Tell me dammit-just _tell_ me!"

"I just _told_ you!" Wilson strode forward, flinging his arms in the air angrily. "I told you it's about you completely giving up on-do you _really_ think people will want to-what, get involved with you if you're married? People aren't going to understand that it's not real; and if they do, the aren't going to-you're _purposely_ ruining your chances of-"

"I'm not ruining anything. What, you think Dominika and I are suddenly fucking exclusively just 'cause we've got rings on our fingers? She's got someone else to screw; I'm certainly not giving up my sex life."

"This isn't about sex! This is about-oh you know what? I'm done. I'm not even going to-"

"What? Love? It's about love? Oh please! Like you're one to talk about that! You can rant and rave about how this marriage is fake but it's just as full of shit as all your marriages were! And your marriages never stopped you from having sex with whoever you wanted, either!"

"It's not sex!" he repeated, spittle flying forward and barely missing House's face. "It's understanding, it's acceptance-it's everything _else _that you're throwing away all for what? A distraction?"

House scoffed and shook his head. "Right, understanding. That's what you're concerned about," he replied scathingly.

"I am!"

"You understand me just fine," he snarled, as if that were crucial to the situation; as if that meant others would understand him too.

Wilson let out a harsh sigh and turned towards the door. "We're not sleeping together."

"Maybe we should."

It wasn't yelled or said as a rebuttal; it wasn't meant as an insult. It sounded sincere; almost frightened. Wilson stared at the door and thought about leaving, but instead he turned to face House. "What?" he asked, and House refused to meet his eyes. "What did you say?"

House shifted his weight onto his other foot and focused on the carpet. "You heard me."

Wilson let out a frustrated growl and stared at the ceiling. "You always do this! See? Here you go, _again,_ turning-turning this legitimate conversation into a joke! I just can't win with you, can I? Oh, no, as soon as things start getting mature and serious, you have to go and-and-why would you even _say_ that?" The fact his tone was higher-pitched than normal and the fact the ache in his chest was fresh and new forced him to accept he was frightened. "It's just a damn joke to you! Everything! Us!"

"That's right, I was kidding!" House snapped, striding closer to Wilson, lips curled upward into a nasty scowl. "Keep believing that! Except you don't, do you?"

"House, what are-we're talking about your marriage, not-"

"We're talking about why you hate my wife! And face it, Wilson-you just don't like her because you're in-"

"That's it! I'm done with this!" Wilson purposely interrupted; he wasn't going to let House go there. Anger and fear burned their way through his veins and leaked into his stomach and lungs; made his hands flinch.

"Yeah, that's right! Keep pretending like you're only concerned for _selfless_ reasons!"

"I'm going home," Wilson growled and turned around, storming towards the door, yanking it open and slamming it.

"Chickenshit!" House bellowed through the door.

The word echoed in Wilson's head until it forced a click in his brain to ricochet around his skull; his hands clenched into fists and were there a bottle nearby, it would have shattered against the wall in front of him.

Wilson spun and yanked the door open again to see House chucking the controller Wilson had been using across the living room. The door slammed against the wall and House spun around as Wilson strode to him, fire and hate and stress fuelling him.

THWACK.

Wilson felt the dull, barely there throb on his knuckles before it occurred to him that he'd just punched House. House had stumbled into the coffee table, knocking it a foot or so from its original resting place with a scuff and the sound of a glass tipping over onto the polished wood and rolling slightly, stopping short of the edge.

White popped in his vision and his eye throbbed; his nose stung and he felt hot, thick wetness sliding down his face; into his mouth. The ache that intensified underneath his eye came as an aftershock, and Wilson realized belatedly that House had punched him back.

Wilson lunged at him and slammed their mouths together, copper and salt filling his mouth; Wilson clutched so hard at the collar of House's tee that he heard it stretch with a vague ripping noise.

House gasped and the noise filled Wilson's ears like a scream; struck him with the knowledge he'd just assaulted his best friend, first with his fist and then by kissing him. He yanked away from him and his hands dropped to his sides; stared at the red smeared across House's face. He wiped his own face with the back of his palm; his nose wasn't broken, but it was still bleeding and it trickled down his throat.

His left eye stung because he'd widened them too much and his heart slammed in his chest; fear replaced anger and he sucked in a breath, tensing to ready himself for another punch.

Instead, House splayed his hands across Wilson's cheeks and licked his bottom lip. In the back of his mind, Wilson thought that must've tasted horrible since his nose was still dripping with blood, but the rest of his head went blank.

"Don't stop _now,"_ House whined before licking his bottom lip again, and then drawing it into his mouth; suckling and nibbling until Wilson closed his eyes and pushed his tongue against House's.

The tang of blood and saliva and the beer from dinner wasn't a pleasant one, but he plunged deeper anyway. House's blunt fingernails dug into his cheek; scratched enough to make Wilson wince. House slid his hands from his face down his shirt; scratching down the fabric enough to leave tiny hot trails on his chest; jerking his shirt out of his pants frantically while Wilson kissed House so hard he staggered backwards. They rammed into the coffee table so the tumbler that had tipped over hit the ground with a tinkling of breaking glass.

House's hands were on fire as they slid up Wilson's back and scratched down; their lips detached for Wilson to hiss in almost-pain and House bit down on his shoulder. By all rights, that should've hurt but it didn't-instead he moaned embarrassingly loud and dug his fingers into House's side, forcing their groins together.

House sucked on Wilson's adam's apple before attacking his mouth again; too much teeth and tongue and wetter than normal from the blood. His nose throbbed painfully when House tilted his head and bumped it. Wilson paid him back by biting down on his lip hard enough to break the skin; House gasped and thrust against him while simultaneously walking backwards; they stumbled over each other's feet, stepping on toes and knocking knees.

House tugged at the collar of Wilson's shirt so that the first button done up popped; Wilson slid his hands under the tee, grasping at House's hot skin.

They tripped into House's bedroom and pulled away from each other with a sloppy smack; House practically tore off Wilson's button-up shirt, so that only two buttons remained attached. Wilson spat out some blood without meaning to and almost felt guilty, but a thrill of adrenaline and pleasure overrode that when House suckled on his neck, scraping at the moistened skin with his teeth.

Wilson forced House away just so he could divest him of his shirt, the collar stretched out rather noticeably, then pushed House onto the bed. He bounced and let out a rather loud oomph, but Wilson was on him a second later, licking at his mouth and biting his lip; plundering his mouth and trying to ignore the wet, coppery taste of blood that still managed to run down his face.

House's knees squeezed Wilson's waist, forcing their pelvises to grind. Wilson pulled away to suck in much-needed gasps of air. He stared down at House, touching only at the groins, and stared at his wide blue eyes, sparkling madly, and his wide, manic grin; blood smeared all around him mouth, reddening his scruffy beard, as he mapped Wilson's bare chest before sliding one hand behind his neck and forcing their mouths together again, bucking up and grunting.

Wilson started sloppily kissing down House's chest, sniffing because beneath his nose still felt wet, and when he opened his eyes to peer up at House, he saw pink smudges marring his skin. It was dying down, at least, and he closed his eyes to circle House's navel with the tip of his tongue.

He laid the flat of his tongue against the bulge in House's pants; licked the denim before frantically unbuttoning and unzipping; House whined and Wilson pulled the pants down, a bit rougher than he should've and House flinched when it went over his scar. House wasn't wearing shoes, so he sat on his knees long enough to take them off completely and throw them over his shoulder before grabbing House's underwear and divesting him of them, although not as roughly as he had the pants.

House stroked himself, biting down on his lip while Wilson stared at him, fist blurring over the head of his cock as his head tilted back, digging into the pillow, and Wilson's own cock ached from being so hard and pushing against the zipper of his pants. As he unzipped his pants and pushed them down to his knees, he found himself mesmerized by the way House's chest rose and fell with his rapid breaths.

Wilson grabbed House's wrist and forcibly pulled him away from his own cock; held House's hands against the mattress above his head, pinning them there, and House chuckled deep in his chest when Wilson slid his cock against House's. House didn't try to pull free from Wilson's rough grasp, but Wilson held tighter and thrust against House harder; faster, until they were both gasping and swearing with every other breath, pre-come and sweat slicking and adding more lubrication-but it still wasn't enough; Wilson wanted more, squeezing House's wrists and digging his nails into his soft skin.

He dropped his forehead to House's shoulder and swore into his sweaty flesh; House bit at his shoulder and Wilson retaliated with a bite of his own, thrusting and grunting and biting hard enough to draw blood; House hissed and bucked; for the first time, pulled against Wilson's grasp, and Wilson apologetically licked and sucked the spot before kissing up his shoulder, neck, jaw until he found the corner of House's mouth and blindly ravaged it.

House pulled away to gasp out Wilson's name and Wilson chuckled before leaning down and nipping at the swollen lip. "Wilson," House repeated, turning his head so Wilson was forced to stop. "Top drawer," he panted.

Wilson leaned over and yanked it open to see lube and condoms. He blinked rapidly, realizing what House wanted, and then pulled the lube and a condom out. He sat back on his knees and used his teeth to tear the plastic; rolled the condom on quickly. He tried to spread his legs more, but his pants around his knees trapped them. He contemplated taking them off, but opted to grab the lube and slick his cock. In his haste, he might have been a bit too zealous with how much he used, but he capped the lube and tossed it aside. House spread his legs and Wilson leaned down, holding himself with his left while he rested his weight on his right hand, planted beside House's head.

He pushed into House with ease; a little quicker than he'd expected; he wasn't as tight as Wilson had expected, either. He wasn't a virgin; that much was made clear when House clasped his ass and forced Wilson all the way in, impaling himself, and let out a loud cry that wasn't in pain.

"Harder," he ordered through clenched teeth, and Wilson obeyed.

The headboard slammed repeatedly against the wall; House and Wilson weren't shy about shouting and grunting; the bed creaked, the sheets rustled, they gasped and yelled, and Wilson just pounded faster; harder. He hadn't had sex with anyone since Sam left; the feeling of being deep inside someone, surrounded by warmth and slick heat, made it hard for him to hold back, and he was glad House didn't ask him to; the fact it was House, finally, after all these years, who he was inside, made it all the better.

House scratched and bit and clasped onto him; Wilson licked and sucked and kissed him in return. Words and names were half-said, vowels were uttered, and stuttered consonants spilled forth, until House thrashed his head back, forced his hips up, and babbled insanely, semen splashing up over his chest, spurting over Wilson's hand, which he hadn't even realized was stroking House's cock like a man possessed.

House's muscles tightened and his knees squeezed Wilson's waist; nails dug into his shoulders and scratched down; teeth at his lip broke skin and a slight tang of copper returned; he couldn't remember when the blood in his nose stopped.

He thrust forward; pounded House into the mattress, who kept moaning and grunting and hissing, probably over-sensitive. The pressure built at the small of Wilson's back and House bit somewhere near his collarbone, digging his fingers into Wilson's arms, and that was all it took for the world to flash and spin around him.

He cried out before collapsing on House's chest, smearing the semen and sweat and some drops of blood that were newer than he'd expected between them; slick and warm and sticky.

He hyperventilated out-of-sync with House, who wrapped his arms tightly around Wilson and kept pressing his nose into Wilson's hair and kissing his ear.

It wasn't until he heard the announcer declare the winner by default from the living room that he realized they'd left the game on.

And that he'd just had sex _with House._

This wasn't a bottle through a window or mirror; this wasn't a loft they bought. This was his friendship, and he'd just shattered it to pieces.

He pulled out of House and peeled the condom from his dick; he refused to look at it, which made it difficult to not look at House because they were the only two things his eyes wanted to register. He made to get off the bed, but he'd forgotten his pants were still around his knees and he fell onto the floor, thwacking the back of his head, the condom somehow smacking right on his forehead.

House laughed and leaned over the bed, staring down at him with a gleeful grin and Wilson looked away before he could give in to the emotions swelling up in him; before he could laugh along with him and join him on the bed.

Wilson toed off his shoes and pulled the condom off his forehead before he pushed off his pants and stood, trying to ignore House's laughs and chuckles. "Taking a shower," he muttered quickly as he kicked away his pants.

He hurried into the bathroom and threw the condom at the garbage; it didn't make it in, but he didn't bother to pick it up. He glanced at himself in the mirror and felt his stomach drop to the floor.

His lip was swollen from the biting; his mouth was smeared with blood, a tiny, gooey puddle beside his left nostril, and his left eye was already swollen and a green bruise bloomed underneath. There were bite marks on his chest, one in particular bleeding slightly; bruises in the shape of fingerprints on his arms, and he could feel the scratch marks down his back. Not to mention the multiple hickies marring his throat.

It all served to remind him he'd not only punched, but fucked his best friend.

He'd broken the last thing he truly cared about.

Sucking in a shaky breath, knees still wobbly from the intensity of the sex, he stepped into the shower and closed the curtain; fiddling with the knobs until he got the right temperature.

The water hit his back in pellets, and he sighed, leaning his hand against the wall and staring down at the floor; pink water pooled around the drain and he scoffed, pulling away from the wall and reaching for a washrag; knocking over the generic shampoo House always bought.

He bent down and picked it up; it slipped out of his grasp and he juggled it. He finally managed to get a decent hold of the shampoo and stood, placing it back on the shelf, and the curtain opened.

"House, what are you doing?"

House stepped into the shower. "What? You'll take all the hot water and I smell like a teenaged boy's favourite sock."

Wilson took a large step back and slipped slightly; he caught himself by smacking a hand against wall beside him. "But-but-"

"Come on, Wilson. We just had sex. No need to get all shy now." He plucked the rag from the shelf and ran it under the shower until it was soaking, then scrubbed his face clean of smeared, crusty blood.

His eyes were squeezed shut as he turned his face upward against the stream from the shower while he scrubbed down his torso, but his right eye was swollen and black; darker than Wilson's, but his nose wasn't bleeding. His bottom lip was swollen, too, with a tiny scab from were Wilson had bit him; his shoulder had a perfect imprint of Wilson's teeth, and there were tiny bruises around his throat that marked where Wilson had kissed him.

Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at the porcelain floor, stepping back and the backs of his knees hit the shower chair that had been installed after the infarction; the floor had some sort of rough traction too, so it wasn't as slick as it normally would've been. "I shouldn't have punched you," he apologized, voice barely audible over the rushing shower spray. He wasn't even underneath it anymore, so he was cold compared to the hot blast he'd been getting a few moments prior.

"It was a long time coming." House clasped his wrist and tugged. Wilson took a step forward, staring at how close their toes were and the spray of water hit him; warming him and he sucked in a deep breath.

House brought the rag up to his face and began washing underneath his nose; wiping away the blood that had crusted there. Wilson looked up and looked into House's blue eyes; it felt like years since they'd really been able to meet, although that clearly wasn't the case. He held the rag under the water to wash free the blood, then began to rub Wilson's chest and stomach in gentle circles.

"I . . . every time I get stressed-"

"What was that? I can't hear you over the shower."

"I break things," Wilson stated louder, keeping his eyes locked onto House's. "I broke the mirror, and-and the window at your dad's funeral-I just-I shouldn't have-and now, I've-I broke-"

"You didn't break anything. Gave me a hell of a shiner, though."

"That's not what I was talking about."

"I know," House relented, then placed the rag back on the shelf. "But you're wrong."

"I'm not wrong; I've always-"

"You might break shit, but you always get something back. Something better. Usually involving me. And before this turns into a sappy after-school special, I'm ending it there."

Wilson opened his mouth to contradict him; to prove that everything they had was gone now, all because he'd lost control and didn't happen to have a bottle nearby. Then it clicked; he might have broken that mirror, but he gained his friendship with House; he'd broken the window at the funeral, but he'd reunited with House, and he might have broken Cuddy's trust but he'd gained a loft and he and House had gotten closer than ever.

And now, House was wrapping his arms around Wilson and pulling him into a hug; pressing awkwardly on several bruises but Wilson ignored the barely-there aches. He wrapped his arms around House too, letting the water cascade down them in warm waves, the lull of water falling the first relaxing thing he'd felt and heard in weeks.

"I'm not hugging you," House murmured into his shoulder. "I'm just making it so we can both get under the water."

"Sure."

He knew things wouldn't go perfectly; there was his stupid, fake marriage to contend with, and the fact that House was hard enough to handle as just a friend, let alone dating him. Somewhere, Dominika was buying orange juice they didn't need and the game was still going on without them.

But things were fine. Better than fine.

He held House closer and buried his face into his shoulder, smiling into his skin.

"Wilson?"

"Hmm?"

"I really am hugging you," he admitted.

And for the first time in months, Wilson laughed.


End file.
